To Mould A Man From Clay
by Bamfbugboy
Summary: Prior to the beginning of the BH story, Jirax Danthan dies at the hands of Darth Vexyl, the Sith he was sent to track down for a handsome bounty. Against his will, he is modified cybernetically and turned into a monster. After tragedy strikes, he seeks nothing more than a place in the galaxy. His answer? Contacting a man named Braden and entering the Great Hunt.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This will follow the bounty hunter storyline, and there will be spoilers. I'm copying this over from tumblr since I shockingly saw that there isn't any fanfiction tagged with Mako. Given that it's from tumblr, it's a little drabbly and vignettey, but as I said, it'll follow the storyline (if only loosely). There will be many _Frankenstein _& _Paradise_ _Lost_ references in this piece. This story will have mature themes, including cursing, violence, gore, and potential sexuality (though I'm debating this).  


**A little background for this character, so that this somewhat makes sense**:

The inspiration for Jirax Danthan came from several songs by a French band named _Dionysos_, which tell the story of a man who is kidnapped and has his heart replaced with a coo-coo clock. Combined with the Frankenstein's monster trope, Jirax is a 34 year old man who once was a "normal" human being until his violent death at the hands of a Sith whom he failed to kill. This Sith, with the help of both the Dark Side and cybernetics, was able to resurrect him after several experiments, and thus was able to recreate life. The Sith intended for Jirax to become a personal mercenary who could never defy her, but, in sticking with the Frankenstein's monster trope, when Jirax woke up he was a completely different man, but he himself did not consciously notice the change. As he worked under the boot of his "employer", he learned of the Sith's experiments upon his corporeal form, and thus he wanted to usurp the control of his creator and grotesquely killed the Sith._  
_

Physically, he is extremely unattractive. There are several cybernetic and surgical "enhancements":

His eye; transorbital lobotomy took away its proper organic functioning.

His amgydala and frontal lobe were cut into, in many ways lobotomizing his ability to healthily relate to others and his ability to control his aggression.

His heart was replaced with a smaller, but mechanically enhanced one.

His lungs are more efficient and effective.

There's a "restraining bolt" so to speak: a chip embedded into of his amygdala that helps to regulate said aggression to a degree.

* * *

**To Mould A Man From Clay**

**Chapter One**

_"Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay_

_To mould me Man, did I solicit thee_

_From darkness to promote me?"_

After repeated, annoying persistence on Mako's behalf, Jirax Danthan finally caves and lets the small woman he's somehow partnered up with to tend to a nasty burn on the lower half of his face and neck. He's seated on the edge of his bunk with an old, tattered book in his hands. All he wanted was a chance to get some sliver of quiet after chaos of the first half of their trip to Dromund Kaas aboard the _Black Talon_.

"Just fuckin' get it over with."

"Well do you want it to scar?"

He rolls his good eye, "Does it look like I care?"

She awkwardly laughs. "Okay, do you want it to scar worse?"

"I just want to look at this damn book in peace."

"Sit still, shut up, and you'll get that peace."

He grunts and mumbles something along the lines of her being the overly talkative one. He doesn't flinch when she leans over him, reaches out, and touches his disfigured face to assess the damage. Her fingers are soft, delicate, smooth; it's clear she's never done the heavy lifting in this business. She then digs into her leather satchel and pulls out a kolto wrap and antibiotic gel.

"Are you actually reading?" Mako raises a brow.

"The fuck would I be holding this book for? Ain't a damn picture book if that's what you were thinkin'."

"You're kidding." She tilts his book forward to see the title. "_Galaxy Lost_? _Seriously?_ Isn't that…But you're not… You just don't seem…"

"You think I'm some kind of fuckin' dumbshit?"

"Well," she huffs, "you certainly don't sound bright…"

"Soundin' ain't all of it. You ever stop to think that a good mercenary actually looks over his contracts?"

She dabs some of the antibiotic onto a torn-off piece of kolto wrap and lightly presses into the wound. Jirax doesn't flinch or complain.

"I guess you're right. I'm sorry for assuming." Mako shrugs and thankfully the subject is dropped. Despite his request for silence, she finds herself disconcerted by the silence between them. "Jory and Braden always howled when I used this stuff."

Jirax groans. "Two things: One, I ain't neither of them so will you stop comparin' me to 'em? Two, it takes more than medicine to make me squeal like a dirty rat who's got his tail stepped on."

"Tough guy, huh?"

"Been through helluva lot worse," He says with a clenched jaw, entirely peeved by the continuing conversation. Once the gel's evenly spread, Mako starts peels away the backing of the bandage and then adheres the partially sticky part over the wound. As she leans away, she smells something strange, something sanguine.

"Are you still bleeding? Did I miss something? Did those Republic guards…" she trails off as she peers down at his armored chest piece. Underneath the metal plating she sees the tunic stained partially with dried, but fresh blood.

"_Hey!_ Were you even going to mention this?"

He sighs and looks down at the area. "No, wasn't gonna."

Mako gapes. "Well why not?"

"S'none of your business. Now finish up on my face so I can get some damn peace."

"But you're bleeding," she starts to tug at the metal plating in order to peel it off, but he jerks away and swats away her hands. "Look that's fresh. You may think I don't have much experience but I−"

"It ain't about you none so shove off it. I agreed to the fuckin' face only alright?"

Mako hesitates but watches him intently with suspicion. She shakes it off, frowns, and glares. "I don't get what the big deal is at all. If you want to be in pain, fine, so be it, but this is the last time I help you out, you _inconsiderate jerk_."

Jirax snorts. "Been called plenty worse. That's a compliment."

"Yeah well you haven't been called that by _me_."

"Ooo. Shakin' in my boots." He continues reading as if he hadn't been encumbered. He hears her gathering her medical supplies. "If you're done you can get lost till Dromund Kaas. Go pester someone else."

Mako's jaw drops, and she stands speechless. She stares at him for an extra moment and then shakes her head.

"How about no? I think I'd rather keep on _pestering_ you." She drops her satchel back on the table, eliciting a loud thump. She folds her arms and is at her boiling point. "Look, if we're working together you need to treat me with respect. I helped you on Hutta so I deserve better treatment than this! Why don't you at least _try_ to reciprocate? Is that really that hard to ask?" Mako tentatively takes a step forward, intent on attending to his other wound. "We're partners, even if it's just in name and business, so let me help you−"

Jirax lowers his book for the first time. His mechanical eye fixates on her. He's entirely put-off by the confrontation and he slowly gets up from the bed's edge. He stalks over to her like a predator: eyes dark, brows narrowed, lips curling into an ugly smirk. "You really don't want to get into this."

Mako's stance diminishes, and she's losing ground as her back presses into the metal wall of the cabin. Once he stands before her, towering over her, she is swallowed in his shadow.

When she tries to side-step him, he mirrors the move and blocks her. "You rolled the dice so you gotta deal with the risk."

Jirax then begins to remove his gauntlets, the shoulder epaulets of his armor, and then the heavy metal chest plating. Once only the dirty khaki shirt remains covering his chest, the dark grin widens, teeth bared, and he pulls the shirt over his head and off his body.

Immediately Mako gasps and grows pale. She screams and attempts to push him aside in order to run away. Jirax prevents her again, grabbing her wrist, and forcing her to touch one of the varicose veins on his breastbone. She struggles as he guides her palm over the patched, bulging muscle where his mechanical heart protrudes beneath the sickly yellow skin. The warm flesh pulsates beneath her palm, and the mechanical device emits a red glow. The source of the blood came from a stitched wound reopened by the previous conflict with the deceased Jedi Padawan Yadira Ban, but that's hardly on Mako's mind.

"You're, stars,…you're−"

"Say it. Fuckin'. _Say. It_."

She trembles as she lifts her head to meet his eyes. "A monster!"

Jirax releases her, laughs maliciously at her discomfort, and watches as Mako hurries away without looking back.


	2. Chapter 2

**To Mould A Man From Clay**

** Chapter Two**

"Don't you find anything wrong with what you told the Admiral?"

"Why the fuck would I?"

"Well it was kind of hypocritical."

Jirax stops walking and snorts. "You think I have a hard time lookin' in the mirror or sumthin?"

"I don't know, maybe. I would if I were you."

"I do the job. He wanted her dead. Big deal."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

"You shouldn't be."

Mako folds her arms across her tunic and sighs. They continue walking in silence until she finally snaps, "How can you be so callous?"

"Why can't you shut up for five minutes?"

"You can't just answer my question by asking another!"

"I just did."

Mako's anger boils over and she lets out a strangled groan of frustration.

"Just because you're physically hideous doesn't mean you have to have an ugly personality.

It's clearly some kind of twisted defense mechanism. Let me guess, there's a sad, lonely man beneath all that metal and scarring—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there," he growls. He grabs her forearms and holds her still, peering down at her with a steel glare. When he sees her wince and pull away, Jirax grunts, loosens his grip and releases her, and then looks away. "I ain't some damn wounded animal."

"No, definitely not wounded, but still an animal."

"If you don't want to run with a rancor, duck out while you still can."

"It's not that simple."

"Sure it is, ain't holdin' a gun to your head. If you really wanted to take down Tarro and get revenge, you'da ran off on Hutta after stealin' my credits, gone to Shaddaa maybe, hired a less scary merc, hunted Tarro down like the pond scum he is, killed 'im and gone your merry annoyin' way."

Mako shrugs. "Maybe I want to do more than just seek vengeance. Maybe I want to honor my family and make sure their dream is fulfilled."

"Well ain't that rosy and sentimental."

"It's_ family,_ something I thought even you could have the capacity to understand."

Jirax feels pressure in his skull and a sharp pain emits from the base of his neck. He blinks at Mako, stunned and disturbed by what she's implying. In his mind's eye he sees a flash of ebony hair and blue eyes, a young boy, a name forms on his lips, and then blinding white light. It's over and pushed aside before he can even raise a hand to cradle his throbbing head.

As they continue wandering through the streets of Kaas City, the silence is sharp and wrecked with tension. Mako knows she's hit a nerve, and the right one at that; despite wanting to push the topic, to wound the monster and watch him burn, a shred of empathy prevents her from doing so—but only a shred.


	3. Chapter 3

**To Mould A Man From Clay**

**Chapter Three**

After everything's said and done, the prospect of having a place to settle down and rest his head (and isn't a dirty hovel or alley) brings Jirax security. He killed the ship's previous owner without a blip of conscious hesitation or guilt.

"I won't complain about having an actual fresher," Mako had quipped to Crysta, Jirax's handler in the Great Hunt, before they left the Mandalorian Enclave. "I still smell like a wet Akk Dog who's rolled around in the toxic waste of Hutta."

Jirax wanted to get off of Dromund Kaas the very moment they arrived, for a variety of reasons, with the most significant being related to his death and "rebirth" at the hands of Darth Vexyl. It hadn't been his first incursion into the Dark Temple. Three years ago it had been his place of creation and three years later, he wanted to burn the place down.

In the end, Jirax powers up his ship and leaves with the fleeting hope that he'll never have the displeasure of returning to the dreary Imperial capital.

* * *

Once they're in the dark of space heading to the core world of Balmorra, Mako finds Jirax on the lower floor in one of the rooms with bunk-beds, reading. He's dressed in looser clothes: a white short-sleeved shirt and black pants.

"How come you aren't in the main captain's quarters?"

"Don't want it. Take it for yourself."

"You really want to stay in a room situated by the engines?"

"You got a problem with my decision makin' skills?"

Mako frowns and runs a hand through her short, semi-damp hair. She doesn't understand why every innocent question of hers is answered with an abrasive comment. "I just...I don't know...it's just weird."

"Well I'm weird, get used to it."

Mako raises a brow. "But this room's louder."

"If I had a problem with the noise would I even be here?"

"No, I guess you wouldn't be." She shrugs. "But the captain's quarters are roomier-"

"Fuckin' hell, you ain't as clever as I thought. Can't you be happy with a gift?"

"I didn't realize this was," she adds air quotes, "a 'gift.'"

"It ain't whatever's the opposite of a gift."

"So you're gifting me the captain's quarters."

Jirax lowers his book, _Galaxy Lost_ once again, rubs the bridge of his nose, and sighs. His head aches as he swings his legs over the edge of the bunk. Despite the growing pain behind his eyes, he says, "I'm apologizing, dam-_I mean_, you're makin' this mighty hard."

"Well figuring out an apology from one of your mean games is difficult."

"I ain't tryin' to play a game." His mechanical eye fixates on her while his human eye stays focused on his hands. He hesitates, scratches his neck, and mutters, "I'm sorry."

"What was that, I'm afraid I didn't hear you."

"I said that I'm sorry, alright!"

"_Hold up_," she raises a hand to stop him. "This is you apologizing?" Mako laughs. "You're _kidding_ right?"

"Whatever, call it whatever ya want."

"Well I don't forgive you. Forgiveness is earned, and that's going to take some time given your current record." She folds her arms tightly across her chest and sighs. "But I appreciate the thought."

"I got one condition."

"Go figure. So much for a gift right?"

"Ain't anythin' big."

"Well no promises. I'll hear it out."

"Tell me how you know."

"About what?"

Jirax runs a hand over his face and grunts. The pain is more present in his head, uncomfortable and hard to continue ignoring. Through a clenched jaw he says, "Y'know _exactly_ what."

"I didn't run off to go cry if that's what you thought, when we were on the Black Talon. You just...startled me."

"Figured."

"I knew you wouldn't tell me about yourself...I have this implant in my brain," she points to the pieces of metal on her forehead. "It's a direct connection to the HoloNET and some private databases. I looked you up on the Imperial registrar of citizens..."

Mako steps into the room fully and sits down on the edge of the the opposite bunk's bottom bed. Jirax leers at her and studies her with growing suspicion.

"'Jirax Danthan, proclaimed dead at the age of thirty-one-'"

"None of that is your damn business," he snaps. "Ain't right of you, doin' that. That's probably illegal. It's private-"

"Well, I did, and that's that. If you want to talk about it, you'll clean up your attitude, show me respect, and we'll have a conversation in which you attempt to have the semblance of a human being. End of discussion."

Mako leaves before he has a chance to make another rude comment.


	4. Chapter 4

**To Mould A Man From Clay**

**Chapter Four**

"Okay, fine," Jirax says as he enters the kitchen area on the D-5 Mantis and leans against the door's frame, awaiting permission to entire. "Let's talk straight."

"Are you going to behave?"

"I ain't a damn-" He stops himself when he sees her stern expression. He grumbles, with a huff, "Yeah. I'll behave."

"Good, do you want some of the food I made?"

"What," Jirax immediately perks up, "there's food?"

"That Nemodian had a plentiful pantry."

"Good to know."

She smiles brightly and they both realize it's the first time she's smiled towards him. All in the time of one blink does it disappear, "It's nothing extremely special, but it's something Jory liked. Slab of seasoned Bantha meat."

"Smells mighty fine." He picks up a big chunk of meat and puts it one of the mismatched plate in the cupboard. He then takes a seat, leans backwards, props his boot-clad feet onto the table, and grins toothily. "I have a big appetite."

"I figured you would."

They eat in silence that is neither tense nor comfortable. Mako is pleased to see that he isn't a total barbarian. Somewhere inside the cyborg he knows table manners and not to chew with his mouth open. If anything, she feels like she's sitting down for supper with a giant rancor who happens to know how to eat with a fork. She half expected him to pluck the meat into his hands and tear it a part like jerky. If she entertains the idea enough, she can almost imagine him being civilized dinner company-put him in dress robes, cover up his mechanical eye with an eyepatch, add a little makeup over his scars, and he could even pass off as an actual gentleman.

When he finishes, Jirax wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist and pushes his plate away. He folds his hands on his chest and breathes in deeply, enjoying the sensation of an actual meal in his belly. He watches Mako finish her dinner, head down, eyes closed as she chews, trying not to make unnecessary sound. He hadn't noticed her watching him, and in turn, she doesn't catch him staring at her.

Jirax has never had a moment to look at her without there being an argument, blasterfire in the distance, or extra company nearby. Her wavy hair is down and tucked behind her ears. The silver metal of her implant catches the dim light in the room. If he lets his mind wander far enough, he decides that she's pretty, especially without the layer or sweat, blood, and grime. In fact, she reminds him of...

Mako finishes, takes her plate and lets it clank in the sink. She sits down again and tilts her head to meet his glance.

"Tell me how you died."

Jirax snaps out of his little trance. "Goes back further than just dyin'."

"Tell me the whole story then."

He rubs his forearm, just above the bent of his arm. "I shot myself up with a few tranquilizer stim."

Mako raises a brow. "I don't understand, shouldn't you be out like a light-"

"If this conversation goes the way I'm bettin' it does, then it's for the best. My heart can't physically take it. And that ain't a damn cutesy, mopey cliche, alright? I really can't. If it gets too bad I might lose it. Wouldn't be safe for you." He closes his eye and grinds his teeth. "Hurts my head real bad."

Mako peers at him with a confused and perplexed expression. Finally she nods and decides that the potential risk is worth it.

"Don't remember much about life before. Lost plenty of memories. All I know is that I had a wife and a son. Needed money, so I took a job from a Sith who wanted this other Darth dead." Disgust taints his features. "Darth Vexyl. A fuckin' harpy. Outsmarted me and killed me."

"Yes, you were technically dead, or I guess MIA as reported by your wife. There's documentation."

"When I woke up as this, didn't know time'd passed. Bout a year or so in that demented Dark Temple. First thing that bloodsucker wanted was for me to kill my family.

"I saw 'em in market. Watched 'em for an afternoon. Realized who they were and what the Sith wanted me to do. Couldn't do it."

"So you reunited yourself with your wife and son, right?"

"Hadn't seen my reflection before. Didn't know how bad it was. Wife was a blind woman anyways. They split off, her goin' home and Viktur to the academy. Went into our apartment, 'cause she hadn't changed the locks, and she recognized my voice, couldn't believe it really. When she touched me I knew somethin' was wrong. Head started throbbin', chest started achin', couldn't breathe, couldn't think. She tried to help, but it didn't matter. Son came back, saw a monster with his mother, and he said I wasn't his father. Cast me out like a rotten meal. Threatened to get the local guard. Ran out. Last time I went there, plannin' to see if I could make amends somehow, they were gone."

"That's terrible."

"That's life."

"That's quite callous of someone who had just been turned out of his own home and lost his family."

"Well what the fuck do you want me to say? I couldn't let it cripple me. Or guess it wouldn't let me without the pain." Jirax rubs his temple and sighs. "It ain't you at all, s'me. Conditioned like a slave with a shock collar. Got metallic bits in my head too, only I can't get Huttball statistics."

Mako narrows her brows. "It's more than just that." She hesitates as she chews on the next logical question. "Did the Sith kill them since you wouldn't?"

"That she did. Hunt them down, killed 'em, then found me in the jungle. She handed me their dead hearts. Couldn't do much. Felt too much pain. She pulled the strings in the end and I wouldn't let myself die like that in the end. Somethin' made me follow her back to her dirty chambers. Maybe I didn't want to hurt no more." Spite rises in Jirax and his features darken. A grin forms on his face. "Soon 'nough, couldn't take it, doin' her dirty work. Made me sick bein' her dirty little dog, playin' into her mind games and bein' trapped in that twisted world. So one night when she rested in her lavish quarters in Kaas City, I incapacitated her with poison I'd made, and I took that harpy Sith's heart, by carvin' it out of her chest with my knife. I crushed it in my fingers, stomped on her chest cavity till it was a bloody mess."

Mako gapes in horror. "That's absolutely disgusting! And I've heard plenty of nightmarish things."

"A heart for a heart. She had it comin'."

Mako rubs her forehead and her fingers tremble. Suddenly she realizes the rancor, though proper when he wants to be, still is a rancor, all sharp claws and teeth, ugly, hollow eyes, and subdued violence. She swallows hard and raises her eyes.

"Can I ask you one last thing?"

"Ain't stoppin' you."

"Why are you participating in the Great Hunt?"

Jirax pauses, thinks on it, contemplates telling her, but decides against it. He knows it's a foolish reason.

"You wouldn't understand." Jirax abruptly bolts up from the chair as the effects of the stims wear off and he leaves the kitchen. The tremors in his head and chest are unbearable, excrutiating-he knows he's gone too far this time-and as he stumbles through the confines of his ship, his vision blurs, he hears a soft laugh ringing in his ears, feels ghostly gentle hands touch his shoulders, sees his Safie's blue eyes, and then the cruel words of damnation by his son Viktor-

The ship makes him feel like a beast trapped in a cage three sizes too small. His chest tightens, and he thinks that this is it, he'll die and it'll be over, but the pain continues crescendoing, and primal, selfish instinct takes over-he won't die this way, damned to hell, he'll die on his own terms.

Jirax slams his fist into one of the ship's walls, denting its structure. The roar that comes from the back of his throat is foreign, almost too grotesque, and he can hear the Sith's cackling even from her frozen grave.

At the top of the ship's single staircase, Mako watches, half-horrified and half-intrigued, and the anguished, wretched howl shakes her. She wonders briefly what kind of sick, insane creator moulds a man in this fashion.


	5. Chapter 5

**To Mould A Man From Clay**

**Chapter Five**

"I think you did the right thing, with that slicer. She was just doing her job as equally as yourself."

"I don't get wrapped up into politics, and she wasn't aimin' to be part of it none." Jirax shrugs.

Mako nods thoughtfully. Deep down she knows that he won't admit the truth; he let that one go free the moment she mentioned having a family.

"Hopefully she finds her family and gets off of Balmorra asap."

Jirax grunts in agreement. The conversation ends at that, because there's nothing more that needs to be said about the subject. They head back to Sobrik on foot from the Okarra Droid Factory in order to collect Resistance heads for bounties posted by Imperial High Command.

"That Pirrell guy is pretty stupid, don't you think? Seems terrible how we're helping him get into a higher position. It's like we're helping political corruption."

"I don't care frankly. Job's a job and I'm blind to all that nonsense."

"So you don't have an opinion on galactic politics? On the ethics of government?"

"Why would I? If it don't concern me I don't care."

"That's rather callous."

"Yeah?" He folds his arms across his chest and points down at her. "And what, you care? You give a shit about all of that crap that don't concern you none?"

Mako muses, rubbing her chin. Eventually she shrugs. "Maybe you're right. I don't exactly care. So long as there's work to be had."

"That's the idea."

They continue walking on, and head into abandoned trenches and carefully through areasdesignated by those who have survived battles "no-man's land. Jirax treads carefully knowing fully well that there could be active land-mines or mortars beneath their feet.

"Do you think those AA guns would be enough to fry our circuits if we got too close?"

"Ain't droids you and me." He snorts. "Well, least yourself maybe."

"You're not a droid, trust me. You're a lot of things but you're not a droid."

Jirax smirks and laughs, finding the prospect of asking her about the things he _is, _however_,_amusing. He hears a ticking noise nearby, faint and difficult to entangle from Mako's insistent talking. He starts looking around their feet, and he has a bad feeling about this; they should have spent the extra few hours going around the once active battlefield.

"Hey, stop talking for a minute, will ya?"

Her good humor fades, but he's willing to deal with the consequences. "What did I say about-"

Then Jirax spots it-he sees the canister half-way in the dirt, the orange light blinking. He yells for her to move, but it's too late. Her next step is over the loose dirt covering the explosive mine. He lunges forward in order to push her away, hoping to mitigate the blast of dirt and shrapnel. The explosion is a larger one than he anticipates and they both are thrown back into the air.

When the dust, dirt, and metal scraps settle, Jirax has absorbed most of the blow, but he's landed on top of her, unintentionally crushing her beneath his heavy body. He sees that Mako is unconscious, and her forehead is bleeding because she's hit one of the many protruding rocks.

Immediately he rolls off of her, checks her pulse to find it weak and infrequent, and pats her face.

"Mako! Mako, come on, wake up!" When she doesn't stir, he curses to himself.

Jirax knows he needs to act quickly. He sits up and stares down at her almost forgetting what to do in a situation like this, then his wits return, and he rummages through her satchel full of medical supplies, a datapad, a book-_when did she start reading Galaxy Lost as well? Wait, this is my copy_-

He applies some kolto to her forehead gash. His nose catches another whiff of blood and he sees that her leg is bleeding and riddled with protruding metallic shrapnel. He growls and begins to slowly pull away the pieces out of her punctured clothes and skin. It quickly becomes a gorey mess as her leg bleeds out onto him. He tears a portion of her tunic with his hands, fraying the cloth, and the wraps it tightly around her leg. Mako's out of antibiotic medicine, and he curses her for not telling him earlier.

As he does minimal medical care for her, the best he knows how given only his own experiences (and he's much more resilient than her), some dark corner of his mind tells him to abandon her; that she's only slowing him down, that he always wanted to get rid of her. The most cruel thought that slips through his thoughts is that he should just shoot her dead and be on his way-she won't feel it after all.

Jirax shakes his head and feels ashamed, disturbed, and anxious to get her to safety, out of the battlefield and away from his malicious thoughts. He picks Mako's body up, mindful of her leg, and her limp form hangs carefully in his arms and close to his body so he can run out of the desolate "no man's land." He searches for the closest bit of civilization, and then he remembers that woman in the droid factory mentioning a nearby refugee camp that she was going to escape to, somewhere near the mountain foothills. Sobrik is too far from their position. With no better heading than a guess since they're in a valley, he runs off into the northwest, hoping to find the camp settled in the foothills.

* * *

Luck isn't typically on Jirax's side, but it's clearly on Mako's. Jirax finds the small refugee camp huddled next to a mountainside and heads inside its boundaries, only to be stopped by angry, confused guards who point and accuse him of harming the woman in his arms.

"Why the fuck would I be bringing her to you then?"

The situation only worsens with his tone, and other Resistance soldiers come to the camp's entrance given the fray.

"We don't have any room. Balmorrans only. And you aren't Balmorran." The Twi'lek guard points to the temporary Imperial Security badge loosely hanging from his waist. The blatant Imperial logo gleams like blood in the growing hues of sunset in the valley.

The guard signals for another guard to take the badge by ripping it away, and handing it to the Twi'lek.

"Jirax Danthan. Hired Mercenary. Security Level D." The Twi'lek draws his blaster from his holster and aims for Jirax's head. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you this instant."

"I've got a wounded woman here in my damn arms! Wounded by likely one of your land mines!"

"That wasn't the correct answer." The finger hovers over the trigger and is about to press down, when a voice from further into the camp yells for the guard to stop. The blaster lowers as its wielder snarls.

A woman dressed in brown robes comes to the front of the gathered group. A hood obscures her face, but Jirax sees the beginning of soft features. There's a lightsaber hilt clipped to her belt, but this woman has no intention of using it.

"Hell no, we aren't letting Imperial scum into our camp-" the guard admonishes, raising his blaster again.

"I was not asking for your permission. I do not ignore a wounded individual; regardless of faction."

"Please, bring your friend inside. We must act quickly."

Jirax nods and follows after her as a path is made. The Jedi parts the crowd as if it is an ocean, but none of the guards let their eyes move elsewhere. He doesn't care that they don't trust him and are suspicious; he doesn't expect compassion on his behalf, but for Mako he demands it.

The woman guides him to a medical tent where she gestures for him to lay Mako on one of the few empty cots. There are other injured individuals resting, some quietly and some restlessly in their sleep. She shoos off the guards that followed them, and Jirax finds that too trusting of her.

"I am a Jedi Master Leylane Melri, a healer. I can help your friend. Please, sit down and I will begin."

Jirax finds a large set of stacked crates to sit on. His own arm is riddled with shrapnel and he starts pulling the metallic pieces out one by one, without grimacing. Master Melri begins to chant under her breath, and a white light consumes her small frame. He watches her out of the corner of his eye and sees the light flicker and spark around her like warm fire. Her palms are spread wide and outstretched over Mako's frame.

"Her spirit is well; she is a strong woman. Loyal. Kind. Intelligent." The Jedi glances over her shoulder to Jirax. "Untainted."

"What the fuck's that supposed to imply?"

"She has never taken a life before. I implore you to remember that, Jirax Danthan." Her hands gently cup Mako's face, healing the forehead injury. "Ex-soldier. Fought in Druckenwell. Died a mercenary. Twisted by the Dark Side and machinery. Father of a son who cast you away. Widower. Tainted."

"Didn't ask for a damn psych eval. Or some kind of fortune tellin'."

The white light fades. Master Melri takes a step away and removes her hood, revealing short white hair. She turns, and he sees the old, withered cloth over her eyes: Miraluka.

"I apologize; it is difficult to dissociate myself from the Force Signatures around me."

"Can't you turn it off?"

She laughs and shakes her head. "No, of course not. It would be like turning off your ability to breathe, for your blood to pump through your veins."

Master Melri walks towards him and touched the side of his face riddled with burn scars. Jirax remains still and does not flinch away. Something compels him to remain, and he wonders if it is a trick, a subtle command via the Force to freeze him in place.

"I would do no such thing-are you truly incapable of understanding simple affection?"

"Mighty damn inappropriate of an 'untainted' Jedi to behave like this."

Her red lips curl into a smirk. "I never proclaimed to be untainted." The soft pads of her fingers slide over one of his stitched scars, then to his lips, drawing the outline. Jirax never takes his eyes off of her. He waits for the conditioned pain like a slave waiting for the blaring shock from his collar. He waits and waits but it never comes despite her unexpected ministrations.

"I can block it, Jirax," she whispers as her lips hover just above his own, "if only for a little while. I am a healer, but I have my limits."

The Jedi does not close the gap; she waits for him to make his decision. Jirax does not often hesitate when given a choice; he heads in, gun blazing, flame-thrower ignited, and he knows little fear. Yet the prospect of a kiss, a simple _kiss_, alarms him. He has not kissed a woman before, at least not in this life. He imagines distantly that he enjoyed kissing his Safie-

Something urges him to lean forward, and once again he questions if it is his own will or the will of the Jedi via the Force. There is a warmth inside of his head, making him feel light and hazy. Finally, Jirax closes the gap and kisses the Jedi, at first with caution, and then without abandon. His hand buries into her pristine white hair, tilts her head back to deepen the angle, and as if it is a part of his muscle memory, he remembers how to give another living being _pleasure_, not pain. He coaxes her lips to part, he sucks lavishly on her tongue, and she lets out a muffled moan.

For the first time in years, Jirax feels more like a man than an animal.

* * *

On the medical cot nearby, Mako stirs to consciousness feeling dizzy but aware and not in terrible pain. The tent is unfamiliar, and she doesn't remember much of what happened. She tilts her head and sees a strange sight: Jirax locking lips with a beautiful woman she's never seen before, and surprisingly she is kissing him back just as fervently. Mako looks away, flushing out of embarrassment, and her eyes close. She doesn't know how to interpret this new information, and with a quiet sigh she tries to fall back asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

"You still smooching faces?" Mako murmurs as she slowly wakes up.

Jirax sits up from his slouched position and raises a brow. "What're you ravin' about?"

"I saw you kissing-"

He snorts, folds his arms, and shakes his head. "I think you're delusional. The medic gave you some pain-killers for your leg."

They no longer are inside of the Resistance's camp, having been kicked out after Mako's wounds had been mended by the jedi healer. Jirax brought her back to Sobrik, where she could spend time resting without fear of them getting stabbed by angry Balmorrans.

"What happened?"

"Land mine. You stepped on it."

Mako carefully sits up and winces.

"Just relax, will ya?"

"I'm alright. My leg's just stiff."

"I'd reckon that it is, you were practically riddled with shrapnel."

"You saved my life."

"Wasn't anything."

"You could have easily just left me." Mako frowns and looks down. She shrugs, and her tone of voice makes him feel guilty. "You've wanted to get rid of me since Hutta."

"That ain't true at all. I need a slicer and a medic."

"You could just as easily hire one that doesn't talk as much as me."

Jirax rubs his chin. She's playing the same card he played on Dromund Kaas, and he'll bite just this once, he'll find into her half-drugged, half-tired, half-conscious ministrations. "Yeah, I guess I could've, but I didn't want to. Silence creeps me out now." His hand falls and rests on his knee, his fingers drumming out a tune. "Besides, I made a contractual deal that if you helped me with the hunt, I'd put Blood's dirty, rotting head on a platter for you."

He enjoys her playful cackle. "That actually sounds like what I want. I'll add it to the contract."

Jirax grins toothily. Mako smiles and extends a hand. He hesitates, but then reaches out and takes it, shaking it once.

"Thank you."

"Ain't no need for them pleasantries. So why don't you tell me why you stole my copy of _Galaxy_ _Lost_..."

* * *

After two days of rest, Pirrell sends them to kill a Queen, a bug queen at that, and Jirax learns that Mako loves bugs, even if they're the violent, blood-thirsty sort.

"I just think they're fascinating. They protect their own."

Mako doesn't like, however, how when a collicoid dies, its guts explode and spray all over their armor.

"I call dibs on the 'fresher first," she groans as they make their way back to camp after their excursion into the collicoid nest. "Our clothes are going to wreek for weeks."

"I'll buy ya new clothes, alright?" His nose wrinkles and he grunts. "Cause we're burnin' all of this," he gestures to her soiled clothes, "when we get back to the hangar and that's that."

"Good. I wanted a new wardrobe anyways," she teases, "the captain's quarters have a huge closet." She smiles. "I saw this really awesome coat on the HoloNET, well, not saw, but you know what I mean. It was black with a tailored form..."

By the time they've reached Sobrik again, having taken a shuttle from the front line encampment, Jirax and Mako have spent the entire time talking about their favorite books and HoloNET serials, after discovering that they shared a penchant for reading. She enjoys mystery novels, scientific journals about the latest in cybernetic technology, medical reviews, and cook books, even though she's never had a proper chance to cook in a real kitchen before. She learns that he subscribes to several arms catalogs to which he purchases his supplies and gear, as she expected, and reads novels of all genres on the side to pass the time.

"Even romance novels?" Mako teases as they walk off of the shuttle's platform and head for Pirrell's office.

"No, none of that crap." Jirax scratches his neck and tries to ignore the lingering ache in the back of his head. He did his best to ignore it, to let it not ruin a moment of pleasant conversation, but now it's becoming more prominent.

Mako frowns and doesn't further tease him. Instead, she wonders if he avoids that genre for a variety of reasons: one, his dead wife, and two, the potential perceived belief that something like that isn't possible for him. She doesn't understand his medical condition, as she calls it, entirely. Pain upon thinking nice thoughts? Pain upon relating to others? Pain upon showing kindness?

"You're right. Romance novels are crap." She clasps her hands behind her back. They pass a few vendors in Sobrik begging for their attention.

"How did you manage to kiss that Jedi?"

"She was a healer." His tone is blunt enough to warn her to drop that topic. He reaches up to massage his temple, and he controls his breathing. It's clear though in his organic red eye.

_Has he been in pain this entire conversation? Did he ignore it just to talk to me?_

Mako doesn't know how to respond to that at first. When they're back on the ship, she'll ask about it again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note**:_ Violence & Gore in this chapter. You've been warned._

* * *

**To Mould A Man From Clay**

**Chapter Seven**

"_Do it!_ I don't want to see that _scum_ take another breath ever again!"

Something twisted inside of Jirax revels in this darker side of Mako. Her authoritarian tone is new. Her eyes are hollow. She took no pleasure in this request-though it borderlines on a barked order. It isn't right. It isn't pretty. But it is just as she warned upon their arrival, where her eyes seemed haunted by ghosts from the past. She didn't want to come here, but business is business.

_Nar Shaddaa is sleazy, dirty. You don't want to end up here. _

He knows that she was talking from experience.

"As you wish."

The Eidolon, crippled, weakened, and beaten, begs for his life, and neither of them are _that_ merciful. Jirax doesn't even waste the energy of his blaster. He slowly takes off his durasteel gloves, crackles his knuckles, then his neck, making distorted, physically disgusting noises. The monster that so often lurks in the back of his thoughts, watching and waiting, is released without a second of hesitation. His ugly face only gets uglier with the toothy grin.

Mako reminds herself to be strong, to have courage, and to not be afraid. She wants vengeance and she wants to make sure it's done right. There's no point running from darkness when you're already consumed by it.

His fist slams repeatedly into the zabrak's pale pink and tattooed face. Jirax feels the bones and muscles resist at first, hears the last few groans of breath escape from his victim's lips, and then the bones give way, cracking grotesquely beneath his fingers. Even when blood makes his hand slippery, even when it becomes a damn bloody mess, he keeps his focus, keeps going, punch after punch after punch. His own blood boils, sweat slides down his neck, over his varicose veins, and little drops of red blood splatter across his face. It reaches both his mechanical and organic eye, and the good one seems to be redder than usual.

Mako's stomach churns and bile rises in her throat. She can't believe herself-_how could I do this? _

She wants to vomit from the sight and the realization that she's just indirectly killed a living being, regardless of how wretched and deserving the victim might have been. When the pressure in her throat becomes too difficult to bear, she places a hand over her mouth and shakily steps forward, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Immediately Mako regrets the gesture. Jirax turns sharply, dropping the dead body and raising a hand, poised to strike, and her eyes widen-now she's scared, now she's shaking, _and oh stars, what have I done?_

Like cowering prey, she freezes, closes her eyes, and braces for the blow that never comes. When her eyes slowly open, she seems him backing away from her, horrified and clutching his head. His bloodied hands smear the gore over the sides of his face, into his hair.

Mako swallows hard and tries desperately to find her voice in the face of such a predator. As they stare at one another, she realizes that he's just as bereft of speech. Finally, with a quivering hand, she digs into her satchel and pulls out a small, pristine white handkerchief. She rubs her fingers over the soft fabric, the engraved pink letter of her first name, and then extends it towards him.

Jirax blinks and the horror fades into shame and embarrassment. He takes the offering reluctantly, but he knows he needs to wipe away the offending gore, to fully push away the darker portions of his self. It's a rotten chore, and he feels terrible for ruining something of hers, amongst all the mixed emotions.

"I-I'm sorry," he rasps-he still can't properly find his own voice-and he lowers the white cloth to see the disgusting stain. There's enough adrenaline running through his veins; the typical physical symptoms lie dormant for once.

Mako nods because it's the only response she can muster up at the time. She looks down, to the side, at the ceiling, anywhere but towards Jirax. She cross her arms, holding herself together, and she wants to leave Nar Shaddaa with every fiber of her being. There's sanctity and quiet on the ship, there's a 'fresher were she can scrub off the blood from her hands, but deep down she knows it'll always be there.

Her legs and feet find the willpower to move, and Mako heads for the exit of the Eidolon's headquarters. She doesn't get far, because he stops and touches her shoulder-for once he doesn't grab her shoulder and then loosen his grip upon realizing his own strength. This time, this damn miserable time, his fingers are soft and delicate, timid she might even surmise. This isn't the abomination, this isn't the mercenary, this certainly isn't the person she met on Nal Hutta-it's deeper than that, it's simply a man. She can feel him standing behind her. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply.

"I'm so sorry," he rasps again, but it screams so much more: _Please don't walk away_, _forgive me_. It isn't enough for her. Her hands tighten into fists. She doesn't want to forgive him! She doesn't want to forgive herself.

His hand slips away from her shoulder. "I will _never_ hurt you."

It's so quiet she isn't sure she even heard him properly, but it's like a whimper. Mako takes notice that he did not use the conditional; he's leaving himself no room for error, even the possibility of slipping up in her presence.

Finally, Mako turns and looks up at Jirax to beheld not the miserable wretch, but instead a man kneeling at the feet of a higher power, awaiting judgment. The disfigurement of his features, the drying blood on his cheeks, it no longer deters her.

"Okay," she manages, holding his gaze. "I... I don't... I don't know what to exactly say."

"'_Long is the way, And hard, that out of Hell leads up to Light.'" _Jirax recites, and the realization lights her brown eyes. "Book Two, lines 423 and 433."

"I haven't gotten there yet."

He chokes out a laugh. "Guess you know what you're doin' when ya get back to the ship."

It isn't right, what they committed. But they share an understanding: forgiveness takes time-for themselves and for Mako towards Jirax. It's a long road. The first step is always the hardest.


	8. Chapter 8

**To Mould A Man From Clay**

**Chapter Eight**

Old habits die hard. Even after you've technically died.

"Jirax?" Mako doesn't often use his name, and as he removes his helmet, shaking his sweaty hair free, he sees just how disturbed she still is by the entire ordeal on Nar Shaddaa.

"What's on your mind?"

She looks down, to the side, up towards the ship's ceiling, anywhere but towards Jirax. Her hands fumble with loose strands on her shiny new coat. Her hair is down, out of its typical brown hair clip, and she shrugs. Her brows narrow, and it looks like she's annoyed with herself for her own hesitation.

Jirax wants to tell her to take her time, to not force it out, but instead his voice is gruff and sour. "Spit it out or stop fidgeting."

She nods and sighs. "Are we assassins?"

"Depends on how ya define 'assassin.'"

"Someone who premeditates killing another living being. You kill for money."

"Well you do none of that. So you ain't no assassin. I am, I suppose, though you're reapin' some of the benefits—the payload, at that."

"I told you to kill the Eidolon. We planned how we would get him to show his face. We killed him, even if you're the one who pulled the trigger…" Mako closes her eyes, swallows hard, and nods. "Well, so to speak."

He sighs. Everyone has to have this talk in this line of work. "Is your conscience knocking on your skull?"

"He killed my friend. You killed him. It should be an eye for an eye but it's hard not to feel… responsible."

"If ya hadn'ta told me I'da killed the sonuvabitch either way for the hunt."

"You might have taken the bounty in the end."

"No, I wouldn'tve. Didn't need the payout. He insulted me, thought he was a better hunter. Don't allow none of that. S'bad for reputation and all. Gotta always have the teeth bared and the claws sharp." Jirax turns and drums his fingers against the metal grating by the intercom. He thinks he should leave before this conversation waxes philosophical and moral—and he ain't none of that.

However, he takes a deep breath, turns, and takes a step towards her. He places a steadying hand on her shoulder. "First few time's are the hardest, but ya get through it one way or another."

"I don't want to be a murderer."

"What, you think it was murder? It was a job."

"We could have turned in a live bounty."

"You told me to kill 'im so I did." He shakes his head and grunts. "If ya can't take the idea or killin' a man, well, hell Mako, I'll carry it for you. You ain't killed a man never and you likely won't. We'll keep it that way if you want."

"I should've killed the Eidolon. For Anuli. I just…"

"Like I said, ain't easy the first time. Killin' a man."

Mako runs a hand over her face and through her hair. "Can we have this conversation on the bridge? I'd like to get away from Nar Shaddaa as soon as possible."

"Ain't gonna hear no argument from me."

They head through the upper level's hallway to the bridge, and Jirax sits down in the captain's chair, leans over the galaxy map, and plots a course out of Hutt space into the dark.

"Jory taught me how to shoot a blaster. I mean, I knew how to fight…kids have to know how to protect themselves on Nar Shaddaa. But he taught me the right way. How a hunter shoots." Mako smiles thoughtfully. She unclips her holster and draws her small silver blaster with an impressive flick of her wrist. "You know I'm not just a cute side-kick, _buster_."

He grins toothily as he leans back in the captain's chair, propping his feet up onto the map's projector. "Hell, you're right. You're practically runnin' this here operation with you bein' the brains and all them fancy cliches."

Mako meets his gaze, holds it for a moment, and then settles down in the chair beside him, following suit by mirroring his relaxed position. She props her head up with her hands behind her head. "I'm glad you're following through with the Great Hunt, even without Jory and Braden. You should've seen 'em after we heard you accept our offer to be your crew. Grinning and happy. I don't think I've thanked you."

"Don't need to do any of that. Really, don't."

"Winning the hunt's going to mean more than revenge in the end. Their legacy will live on through us."

Jirax glances to his right and studies her. Mako's eyes are closed, her smile is wistful and nostalgic, and perhaps he's seeing a side to her that's more open and relaxed than ever before. The bridge is dark save from the blinking lights from the machinery and controls, and the shadows play on her soft facial features. As always, her metallic implant glimmers even in the dim light.

Old habits die hard. He doesn't trust himself to behave like a human being—but he tries, he wants to try, if not for her sake, but for the sake of his Safie, who, if only for a moment, believed he was still a man and not a monster.

"You know, I've asked all about you, and you've never asked much about me."

"I ain't the sort to go picking at someone's business. If you want to spill the guts of your story, well, figured you'd do it when you were ready."

"It's only fair, probably that I tell you about myself."

Jirax grunts and looks away from her, focusing his attention on the paneled windows opening to the empty black. If he remembers to breathe evenly and divide his attention, maybe he'll be able to temper the pain for a short while.

"I've had this implant my whole life but I never really knew how or why I have it. My parents must have installed it in me prior to well…" she trails off, and Jirax doesn't need to wonder about where that sentence was leading.

"Braden encouraged me to look into my past. Said that no matter what we like to think about ourselves, our past does define us in many ways, good or bad… but you need to know it in order to grow."

Jirax just shrugs. He doesn't want to put down her own hopes with his own cynicism and bitterness.

"Street kid from Nar Shaddaa, what's to know?"

"That rhetorical?"

"Ha ha, very funny."

He sits up and chuckles briefly. "Sleazy, dirty, scum of the galaxy. Hell, you're like a diamond in the rough."

It's out before there's a chance to take it back. He blinks and everything flares up—pain in his head, tightness in his chest. Mako props her elbow up against the arm of the chair and raises a brow. Neither of them know where to go with that.

"…Uh, well, I've done some research on the implant over the years due to curiosity, but it isn't much. Government manufacturer. Classified model."

Jirax coughs, looks away, and rubs the bridge of his nose. He cusses to himself, unceremoniously and aloud, while applying pressure in an attempt to mitigate the conditioned physiological response. However, as it starts to taper off, Mako unknowingly makes it worse.

"Is it really that bad? Just having a conversation with someone else can set it off? What did that Sith do to you?"

"She wanted a machine," he grinds out with a clenched jaw, "too bad her machine came with sentience and emotions."

Mako frowns and purses her brows. She wants to understand this strange individual she's decided to follow through blaster-fire and back. "So essentially… she wanted you to be well, mindless. You said it's like a slave with a shock collar. When you're being… violent or mean, you're fine. No pain. But when you're…"

He shakes his head. "It's deeper science than that. You ever heard of Imperial scientists who did research on animals and slaves, usin' pain and the threat of pain in order to instill obedience, teachin' that obedience gives rewards, and that reward is the absence of pain? It's modifyin' somethin' in order to get what you want. It's fuckin' reprogrammin' the way people think and feel and talk and relate."

"How are you able to talk to me then with this degree of restraint and self-control?"

"Fuck it ain't easy." He groans and clutches at his head. His temple throbs loudly in his ear. He bites his tongue in order to prevent himself from yowling.

"What about…I don't know, is it too sentimental to ask about happiness and love? I don't understand—"

"Ain't wired for it," Jirax says apathetically. It took too much of his own self-restraint and willpower to control his temper and his tone. He abruptly stands from the captain's chair and heads out of the bridge. He feels Mako's eyes follow him, and he doesn't want any of that—not her pity, not her sadness, none of it. On his way he bends down and picks up his forgotten helmet. All he wants is a tranquilizer stim and some sleep in his bunk.

"Wait, Jirax—"

He glances over his shoulder and sees her standing behind him, shorter by a head's length. "Look, I'm sorry," he couldn't believe she was apologizing to him, "it isn't fair for me to be doing this to you. I want to help, tell me how I can—"

"Best you stick to helpin' yourself. Find out about your own past." He frowns and shrugs. "I'll call in the kill later. Need me I'll be in my rack."


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: **Warning. **Gore and reference/allusion/memory of a rape.]

* * *

**To Mould A Man From Clay**

**Chapter Nine**

_Don't you want to sleep my broken darling?_

When Jirax sleeps, it's typically without dreams or at least ones he remembers. However, when dreams do come, they leave him restless and anxious. It isn't safe to dream; they leave too solid of an impression in his waking thoughts, and if they are decent or pleasant ones, they bring pain.

_Love is dangerous for your tiny heart,  
Even in your dreams, so please dream softly._

His mind conjures up dreams of Safie, and they are recreated memories of a man long dead looking back with nostalgia and longing—of knowing the texture of his wife's lips, the sound of her moans in his ear, the softness of her skin, the sweetness of her voice and the charm of her laugh, the altruistic forgiveness, the joy and pride of making a semblance of a home with her—those are dangerous and more harmful.

The nightmares don't bring pain or fear, but instead anger and disgust.

_Don't you wanna sleep, don't you wanna sleep?_  
_Keep the dream but never scream._

His executioner, his creator, and his master—though mutilated and dead beyond all repair (Jirax carefully made sure to destroy her corpse to prevent another vile Sith's attempt at recreating life)—reaches through the nether and pulls the strings on his head and heart in sleep.

Even though they're just sensations and emotions, Jirax remembers every detail. The coldness of her red eyes. The slithering of her forked tongue against his neck. The gnashing of her sharp teeth against his veins. The screeching of her claws scraping down his back. The taunts and threats when she grabs a hold of him, tight and sickening. The wicked tricks and illusions she forces upon his mind—it wasn't Safie, it _isn't_ Safie, it's that damn witch, he always reminds himself. The emptiness inside of him when she's finally spent and bored with her plaything.

He can never resist her without severe punishment, and like a beaten animal who doesn't want to feel the blow of the whip or the shocks in his nerves, he obeys. The holes in his heart are enough of a reminder of refusal.

It was cruel but expected of Darth Vexyl to drag her unwilling monster into her bed on the evening of his wife and son's murder. It boiled his blood, ran deeper than shame and humiliation; depravity of the soul, though he hadn't been rebuilt with one. He wonders if there's a chip in his brain that's programmed to play this memory. Sometimes it's enough to make him want to cut open his skull and dig around until he either bleeds out or finds the source, if it even exists.

_Don't you want to sleep, sleep, sleep at last?_

Jirax can't go on forever without sleep, regardless of his own resilience and stamina. He endures the nightmares and hopes for the pleasant dreams every time he closes his eye, even if they too bring pain.

_What dreams may come…_


	10. Chapter 10

**To Mould A Man From Clay**

**Chapter Ten**

Jirax slams his boot onto Tarro Blood's neck and presses down until the bones and muscles snap. Beside him, Mako watches without grimacing—in fact, to his surprise, she takes her own blaster in hand and adds the finishing touches to their work.

"For Soongh," one shot between the eyes, "for Jory," another, "for Braden," a final shot.

Jirax lets up off the dead-man and is caught off guard when Mako presses herself against him in a sudden embrace. He narrows his brows, thinks about pushing her away, but decides against it, realizing that maybe she needs this. He's too high off adrenaline and the ambrosia of revenge to worry about his conditioning. He doesn't return her gesture to the same degree, but instead awkwardly pats her shoulder. Finally,

Mako realizes what she's doing and backs off, smiling half-heartedly, but it doesn't reach her teary eyes all the way.

"Sorry, I'm just so happy that we got that rat. They can rest in peace finally."

"S'alright. Good riddance to the fuckin' dirty punk."

Jirax isn't sure if it really is all that right—maybe for a moment it is, maybe it isn't, he can't decide—and when she meets his organic eye again, she sighs and puts her blaster back in its holster.

"I'm just…grateful." Now her smile grows full and sincere. "Thank you. I couldn't have done this without you."

"It was an eye for an eye, blood for blood, long overdo," he hesitates but tries to return her smile. She doesn't cringe from the sight, but instead appears stunned and moved somewhat. "You're welcome, Mako."

"Come on, we've got a Hunt to win."

**—**

"You're my actual hero, you know that right?"

Jirax looks up and sees Mako entering the small kitchen, having cleaned up first after the excursion on _The Aurora_. He swallows hard at the sight; she's absolutely radiant with the blood and sweat gone, though he found that beautiful in a different way. She wears her short, wavy hair down and tucked behind her ears.

He returns his attention back to his "Just fulfilled a contract, s'all."

"You did more than that. You're…well you've won. I mean, I never doubted for a moment but…it actually happened. You're the Grand Champion!"

Gault sits up from his relaxed, leaning position in his chair, smirks, and laughs. "Careful Mako, I think you're making him blush."

Jirax shoots a dirty glare towards the Devaronian, partially for being caught in the act and for his own lack of control.

"Orrrr maybe it's blood on his cheeks? You never know with mercenary types." Gault waves them both off and leaves. "Play nice you two, I'm leaving this rusting bucket of bolts to exercise my gambling fingers."

Jirax blinks and stands abruptly, causing his chair to screech loudly. He starts to head out of the kitchen, but she stops him by gently taking his arm.

"Going somewhere?" Mako asks with a grin.

"'Fresher." He points to his face. "Blood and all."

"Right." Her grin widens and she rolls her eyes. "The blood of your enemies. Got it."

It's cowardly, but it's also safer, to leave because he's now alone with her and the games changed significantly since Hutta. He can't help but pick up on the subtleties of her language, the change in her tone, her openness in regard to her own personal mysteries. Balmorra opened a door between them and every step since then has only opened it more and he's crossed the precipice too many times in order to join her. Their conversation evolved into being more for amusement rather than business, from discussing books to him vowing to teach her blaster tricks to actually acting on that promise to cooking meals for one another to innocent joking and teasing, especially while on Alderaan.

Jirax couldn't resist stealing a priceless artifact for her—a small jeweled mandala from some peoples he'd never heard of (though frankly it had been the only artifact left standing after the commotion), and he called it a souvenir. She made the joke that he was like a bantha in a souvenir shop, knocking over pieces accidentally in the brawl that ensued inside of the museum, and they laughed an awful lot about the absurdity of the noble class and how the free life was the better one in the end. In some ways Alderaan had been the vacation Mako had expressed desire for.

The conditioned pain is now more tolerable and less prominent—never gone, nonetheless, but more controllable than in the earlier days of their partnership where it made him coarse, detached, and harsh. He curses less. He kills less reckless. A year of traveling together had changed the tempo and tone of their partnership into a decent acquaintanceship to a friendship, if he wants to call it one. A year of traveling together, and the game's changed.

Despite the control, he still avoids spending too much time with her, and Jirax knows it makes him look like a coward in the end. It's for her safety, he tells himself, though he also knows it ought to be her prerogative. Still he's selfish and doesn't want to hear what her possible answer might be; he's more worried she'll want him to stay rather than leave.

Jirax slides the 'fresher door shut then starts to undress himself of the durasteel and plasmaweave layers. When he steps under the hot spray of water, he grimaces and grinds his teeth because he isn't sure if it's his head playing tricks or if it's really real—he swears the stall smells like her.

He closes his good eye and drinks it in, lets it envelope him some, and bears the following pain just long enough so he can enjoy it. It doesn't help when his mind betrays him and reminds him of the moment when they were heading back to the ship after the ceremony on Dromund Kaas: "You sure do fill out durasteel well. You could tell all the other hunters who lost were jealous." His dreams are filled with her—reenactments of their time spent together, helping her solve the mystery of her past, talking with her about books, getting a little philosophical and political every now and then, enjoying meals in comfortable silence—

When he opens his eye again, Jirax glances down and sees the traces of dirt and blood spiraling down the drain. The warm water soothes his hardened muscles, but before he uses too much—hot water is a luxury they use but do not take advantage of—he switches the faucet to cold and washes the remaining grime out of his dark hair.

It's an efficient shower, less than five minutes in time—removing his own armor took more time. He redresses himself in fresh, clean, civilian's clothes after drying off, runs his hand through his hair, sticking up strands, and accidentally looks in the mirror.

For the first time in too long, Jirax sees his appearance reflected back. His mechanical eye is always active, always twitching and moving, even if slightly, and his other eye, the organic one, is blood red and stares back at him. He reaches up and trails his fingers over the burned side of his face. Immediately he's reminded of why he avoids reflective surfaces—it's too easy to remember his sins and the sins of his undesired creator. It's a reminder that in the end, whatever his dreams conjure beyond their reenactments, they'll always remain that way—as foolish fantasies. Before Jirax grows angry and disenchanted by reality and thus does something he'll regret—punching the mirror, bloodying his hand, and having to explain to his crewmates why the mirror's busted, he heads for the crew quarters where he can get some shut-eye in his rack.

The lower level of the ship is relatively quiet excluding the hum of the powerful engines. His leather boots clank against the metal grating, and he finds that he likes it this way the most—it's good for his health, especially after a tough series of jobs. He intends on fully taking a break, and the first thing he's going to do is crack open one of his old, musty books and read until he falls—

To Jirax's surprise as he enters the room, he finds Mako laying in his bunk, despite there being several others to have chosen instead, as she continues to read _Galaxy Lost_.

For a moment, he can't think straight, but he wonders if his bunk's going to smell like her as well now. "There a reason you're in my rack?"

"I wanted to talk about the book. I finished it before we hit _The Aurora_, but there wasn't time to talk. And plus, Gault's gone so it's almost like old times."

_Old times, we already have a past?_

"I've read that book too many damn times. Don't know why really."

She swings her legs over the edge of the bunk and sits up. "So you should know it cover to cover then."

"Guess I do." He sits down at the bottom bunk adjacent to her. "Well, what'd you think?"

"I loved it. I need to read more epic poetry."

"There's another piece. _The Odyssey_. About a galactic traveler who finds his way back home after one of the first Mandalorian wars. Problem is he keeps losing his head, keeps getting lost in nebulae, and he struggles to fight against the Force and more along his journey back home."

"Do you have it?"

"S'on a datapad I think."

Mako smiles and adds, "It took my mind off the jobs and that business with the SIS." She opens _Galaxy_ _Lost_. "You know what I especially loved? The little scribbles of commentary and additional poetry in the margins."

Jirax snorts. "Ya actually _read_ that crap?"

Her smile fades as she nods her head. "I actually thought they were really good notes and poems. Did you write them?"

He hesitates, but nods.

"You should give yourself more credit." She flips through the musty, worn pages then stops, glides her finger over a page, and then reads the stanza aloud:

"_When a good man goes to war, _  
_He comes back wrong_  
_The wind blows strong,_  
_Howls in his ears,_  
_And all he knows is fear._"

His jaw tightens. "I thought you wanted to talk about the actual _book_."

"They're physically in the book."

Jirax sighs. "Wrote that before I died."

"I know you were a soldier. What battles did you fight in?"

"C'mon Mako this ain't part of the book."

"I'm just curious. I'll admit I'd like to know more about the poetic side to Jirax Danthan."

"I've told ya before, don't remember much about that life, and that poem's from another time."

Mako studies him, then returns her glance back to the book. "You're getting easier to read."

"What's that?"

"I said it's easier for me to read you now. You've only got a few expressions, and the one you just gave me screams that you're lying."

Jirax shrugs and runs a hand through his hair. "Do ya _really_ need to know?"

"Everyone has secrets. But you've been helping me sort through some of my own while competing in the Hunt—and we've made progress. I have a code word: Project 32." She frowns. "I just thought I might be able to help you as well. You don't have to share if you don't want to, it just…sometimes it's good to talk about it, if you're able?"

He remains silent for a few moments, drums his fingers against his knee, and then decides to give in somewhat, if to appease some of her curiosity—or perhaps he does want to reveal some of the truth. "Druckenwell. That's all. Was drafted, trained, and sent to fight there."

"What happened?"

"Look, Mako, you said you came here to talk about the book. Do you want to talk about the book or not?" He meets her eyes and, he sees it there—how desperately she wants to go the next step and reach him. He pauses, hoping she'll turn the conversation around again. "Fine, you're right, I lied. I'm just… 'shamed, s'all."

Mako nods.

"I defected in the middle of the battle. Couldn't handle it…" he shakes his head and stands abruptly in a sudden fit of anger and shame. "Look, why don't you tell me what the hell you're playin' at alright? What's it all matter? The past's done and gone and I can't change none of it so let off it."

"I'm not playing at anything. Are you really that paranoid and unable to see when someone's trying to help and listen? All you do is lie and stay guarded." Mako pushes off the sides of his bunk and shoves the book into his chest. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Here I thought we were getting somewhere."

Jirax narrows his brows and stops her from leaving. "What do you mean, '_getting somewhere_'?"

First she glances over her shoulder, shrugs, and then shakes her head. "Nevermind, you're right. This is just business. That's all. I shouldn't have even bothered."

"Now hold up there," he let's go of her arm and hesitates, "ya need to go back a few steps because while I might be book smart to a degree, I'm havin' trouble followin' you."

"I think you know _exactly_ what I'm saying."


	11. Chapter 11

**To Mould A Man From Clay**

**Chapter Eleven**

The walk back to the Imperial camp is quiet and uneventful. No rakghouls cross their path, no Republic troopers attack from cover, no beasts try to steal the dead man's carcass. It's as if this dreadful planet has forgotten the three of them. Mako knows it would be tranquil, perhaps, if it weren't for the dead body with them.

The two men she's traveling with are stoic and quiet, and it makes perfect sense, though neither will admit it. Torian has just lost his father, and despite dishonor and treachery, the loss of a blood relative isn't easy; Mako hopes that there's some moment of happiness the young man will cling to. Jirax, on the other hand, carries the heavy body of Torian's father over his shoulder and focuses on that. The entire mission had put him on edge the moment he learned who exactly he was going after. She wouldn't be surprised if he was drawing parallels between his own life and the Caderas'.

When they arrive back at the crater base, they take an Imperial Walker convoy back to the Toxic Lake Garrison with other Imperial soldiers and some Mandalorians. They're able to rest easier after a long, arduous hunt through swamp, mud, blood, waste, and rain. She's eager to take a shower, and space her armor and buy new clothes (again). Jirax fidgets and grimaces, but tries his best to play it off as discomfort due to cramped space. He's heavily beaten up, almost moreso than usual, he smells like death, and Mako knows she's going to have to convince him to clean himself off prior to entering the ship else it'll stink up the tiny quarters.

"Taris wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the wildlife and the war." She leans forward, pulls off her gloves, rubs her tired eyes, and then frowns. Across from her, Torian's fast asleep, likely just as exhausted as both of them. "Poor kid."

Jirax grunts and lays his head back against the cool metal frame of the walker. It's not enough of an answer. Mako turns her attention away from the starry sky above them, the only part of Taris that has any semblance of beauty.

"Hey, are you alright?"

Jirax opens his organic eye and tilts his head to look at her. He noticeably hesitates and sighs. As Mako watches him, she can see the clear signs of strain and tension. _Is he thinking about what his own son said to him?_

"Fathers and sons shouldn't turn on each other."

That's enough of an explanation for Mako. She reaches out and covers his gloved hand with her own, then nods.

* * *

After taking a long, relaxing shower, Mako's one hundred percent sure she's never felt more clean in her life. After a month of hunting down Jicoln Cadera on Taris, she was one hundred percent done with the miserable planet and head back to a semblance of civilization (even if it included sharing a living space with Gault again). She steps out of her quarters in fresh clothes: an over-sized grey colored shirt and knee-length shorts. To her surprise, she finds Jirax leaning against the wall of the ship beside the door frame, dressed in only his black underarmor that's torn, ripped, and singed from blaster fire and lightsaber. He doesn't look well—paler than usual, almost sickly, and she hopes his wounds haven't become infected.

"Will ya patch me up?"

"Of course, come on big guy," she offers herself as something sturdy to lean against, and he grunts his thanks. He's heavy but it's a bearable weight without the metal plating, and he knows better than to go completely limp. They walk down the stairs carefully, and one time he nearly trips over his big feet and falls. She catches him, barely, and he laughs once they're steady.

"What's so funny?"

"Dunno. Was thinkin' for a moment that I felt like a damsel in distress—you know, like in those really poorly written romance novels."

"I thought you didn't read those."

"I've read one or two."

Mako joins in on the laughter, because the thought of him willingly reading a romance novel is too amusing but hard to imagine. However, she does wonder if whatever's ailing him has made him a touch delusional.

"What was it called?"

"_Gone With the Solar Wind_."

"You'll have to share it."

"Hell I think I still have it on a datapad. You'll get a kick out of it."

They finally make it to the small med-bay that's across from the crew bunks, and she figures for once it's a good thing he made the decision to bunk there instead of the captain's quarters, because then he'll be able to sleep in his bunk rather than the uncomfortable med-bay. He sits down on on main med-table and starts to fumble with the straps and buckles that hold together the undersuit while she gathers supplies. When Mako turns to look back at him, she finally realizes just how out of it he really is because he's struggling to undo the armor himself.

"Woah, you're really starting to scare me, Jirax, you look terrible," she pushes his hands aside and starts to remove the armor herself until he's bare except for his actual underclothes. Almost every appendage has a nasty looking wound or a blotched bruise or a scrape or a burn.

"You look pretty."

Mako lifts her head and raises a brow. His head falls limp against his chest and for a moment of panic, she fears he's fallen unconscious. She pats his burned cheek and tries to get him to stir again.

"Hey, hey, stay with me, alright?"

Jirax's speech slurs, "I took a shot 'fore comin' up to meet you, so you ain't got nothin' to worry about."

"What?" She puts on a pair of gloves, fills up a bowl with warm water, helps him lie back into a comfortable position, and then starts to clean out his anterior chest wounds with a clean towel. "Are you saying you took a tranquilizer?"

"Couldn't be sure," he grimaces when she presses the cloth into a sensitive spot, "y'know?"

"Hey, c'mon, I've known you for over a year, and I trust you. I think you're much better than when we first met. In fact, remember when I tried to look after you on the Black Talon? I mean, compare then and now, and you've gotten better."

He smiles, but it's not a pleasant one, but a goofy-looking one. "S'nice of you to say that."

"I mean you're still a big dumb mercenary sometimes, but you're better."

Mako cleans up all of Jirax's external wounds and is glad to see that none of them are infected—she imagine the delirium is a result of blood loss, exhaustion, and the addition of the tranquilizer into his system isn't helping. She pours him a cup of cold water from the tap and offers it to him. He drinks it quickly, and she refills it for him a couple of times. Hydration appears to sober him up partially.

"Damn I missed cold, clean water."

"You're telling me."

She tears open a package of kolto and administers the cool green liquid it to the wounds on his chest, particularly a large gash from a nexu and bites from rakghouls. "Probably stink still. That rakghoul shit was disgusting. In fact I don't think that damn stuff even worked. They still charged at us."

"I think my nose has gotten used to it, unfortunately. At least you don't smell like blood anymore."

Jirax nods and closes his eye. As she tends to him, she watches his body language carefully. While it's clear he's physically wounded, she's curious about how he's holding up emotionally and mentally.

"Can I ask you something that's more personal?"

"You can ask, don't mean I'll answer."

"Typical," she rolls her eyes but smiles half-heartedly. "You said…," she stops rubbing kolto into the gash and meets his eyes. His cybernetic and organic eyes are focused on her. "You said 'fathers and sons shouldn't turn on each other.' I just… I just want to know how you're holding up. I'm sure it wasn't easy."

Jirax stares at her and then looks away. After several tense moments, he replies, "No, it ain't easy."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He glances briefly back towards her. "Yeah. I do."

Mako blinks, and she's surprised by his answer. She hadn't prepared a statement in response to him agreeing to talk with her.

"I dishonored my son and wife when I defected. Much like when Torian's father chose to ignore Mandalore's call. Sons have to own up to their father's decisions and reputation, whether they want to or not." His features remain calm, but his tone is mournful. "Vik'tur wanted to join the Imperial military, even as a young boy he knew. Guess he wanted to make up for the sins of his father. Shame he never got the chance. He had a lot more courage than me, I knew he would." He sighs. "It was right of him to cast me out when he caught me with his mother as…this."

"You took that bounty on the Sith in order to help your family. You were desperate. You couldn't have predicted what would happen."

"Yeah, maybe" Jirax points over her shoulder. "There's a small leather pouch in the rack by my bunk, can ya grab it? I want to show you something."

Mako leaves briefly and returns with the worn pouch in hand. He takes it and opens it in order to pull out a small device that looks like a miniature holocom. He presses a button and then a holopic appears before them both. It's a family photo: a dark, long haired woman sits with her hands in her lap, a short young boy stands to her right, and a tall man with no scars upon his face stands behind them both.

"We took that before I left to join the military service because of the Imperial draft. We wanted my son to have a picture of me, case I didn't come back." Jirax shuts off the device suddenly and growls. "I shouldn't have come back."

"Don't say that," Mako urges gently. She finishes applying kolto to the gash and bite, and then begins to stitch the wound together. "Especially as I'm patching you up." She shrugs and smiles half-heartedly. "Your son looked like you."

He falls silent for several minutes, without wincing further. Finally, he speaks again, quietly, and she wonders if he has to keep his voice low or else it'll break. "I loved them so much."

It's the first time Mako's heard him express love in a positive manner. She can't imagine how he feels—to have lost a partner and a child at once, then forced to continue marching on in the unpleasant company of their murderer. She hopes discussing this isn't causing additional pain as a result of his conditioning, but so far he appears to be holding together (though she wonders if it's because his nervous system is overwhelmed with physical pain from actual wounds).

She takes his hand and squeezes. "I'm sorry."

Jirax nods and squeezes back. She protests when he sits up, if carefully and slowly, and leans forward.

"I'm getting better," he tells her in the same low, gruff voice. "Regardless…hell, Mako, you're damn well right, it helped talkin' about it. I danced around poorly, like some big klunky rancor, and I was mean to ya for no reason." He shrugs, appears to be chewing on something, and then finally spits it out in a much more confident voice. "I want to get better. I've played into that dead harpy's hand long enough."

She watches him curiously as his features become more animated as his confidence grows. Mako sees it almost as the beginnings of a transformation, though she wonders if that's too strong of a word.

* * *

"Tell me how your research is goin'. Any leads?"

Mako smiles brightly. "The best lead thus far. I have a sister!"

Jirax nods and props his hands behind his head.

"I mean, we're both long lost sisters, but do you know what this means? I do have a family! After all this time, there are people out there who are probably wondering what happened to me."

"You're worried they gossip about you?"

"Over big family get-togethers, I bet. 'Oh that Mako, she never calls or writes' or 'Oh that Mako, we sure do miss her.'" Her smile fades partially, and Jirax hopes it doesn't disappear altogether. "It's probably a little silly to fantasize about, but I mean…a sister! I wonder what she looks like, or what kind of person she is, or who she's become."

"We'll find out some way."

"It's just tough sense a lot of it's behind SIS firewalls… Whatever my parents were doing, they wanted to keep it hush-hush."

"Just don't let them notice you're hackin' in."

"I'm careful. In fact, I'm a pretty good slicer to have gotten this far."

"You'll get nothin' but agreement from me."

A few moments later, Torian returns to the crew bunks after having cleaned up himself. Gault's currently (and unhappily) on watch at the helm. Mako stands to leave in order to let them both get some sleep.

"Sleep well you two."

Torian smiles briefly and bids her restful sleep as well. Jirax nods and turns on his datapad again. He can hear Mako's feet against the clatter of the metal grating, and as it grows quieter except for the natural hum of the ship, he throws aside his doubts and fears. He takes the datapad with him as he slides out of his bunk carefully, limps out of the quarters, and catches her when she's half-way up the stairs. He tries to remain as quiet as possible—it's a small ship afterall.

"Jirax you're going to open your stitches again," she says in a hushed tone after coming back down the stairs.

"Forgot to give you this," he hands over the datapad. "S'got the epic on it. One I was tellin' ya about before Taris."

"Oh," she smiles and takes the datapad. "I'll start it tonight aftef viewing some other files again."

"S'bit tough to get into at first…"

"I'm sure I'll like it."

"Right then. Night."

"Sweet dreams."

Jirax blinks and turns only partially before stopping her again.

"Wait, Mako, I—" He wonders where his courage disappeared to.

She stops again, laughs, and raises a brow. "What is it, big guy?"

"You were damn right. I knew damn well what you were talkin' about."

Jirax can see her cheeks redden even in the muted light of the main room of the ship. She reaches up and curls a strand of her wavy brown hair behind her ear. His muscles tighten and his head feels heavy, though he isn't sure what that's resulting from.

"I'd…I just haven't…" Now is when he needs bravery and strength.

Mako holds the datapad to her chest and smiles. She steps closer to him and touches his good cheek. Her fingers trail over his stubble, over the tail end of one of his stitched scars, and even just the lightest of touches make him dizzy. She looks from his eye to his mouth, and then he knows it for sure, there's no doubt or fear in his mind. He wraps his arms around her and holds her gently at first as his mouth finally meets hers, and then he grips her tighter.

Even though Jirax can hear his blood pound in his ears like drums, he swallows down the pain, though tamed, still present. He pulls away temporarily, teases her when she leans forward to attempt to meet him again by pulling away and grinning, then dives back in.

It's a different sensation than his experience with the Jedi on Balmorra—that had been coerced out of him, despite the Jedi's denial, and while some part of him enjoyed it, it wasn't real. It didn't involve his true state of being. This is real.

When they part again, they find that they're each a little wobbly and shy. Finally, she breaks the bashfulness bg teasing him in return. "Shoot, I'm gonna smell like kolto."

"Better than rakghoul shit."

"You sure do know how to phrase things poetically."

"I'm rusty on the flowery language. I'll work on it."


	12. Chapter 12

**To Mould A Man From Clay**

**Chapter Twelve**

_"It appears your experiment was successful." Darth Tormen laughs darkly and slouches back in his chair. He swirls the Corellian Brandy in his short glass and then raises his attention to the white haired woman draped in fine, elegant crimson robes seated across from his dining table. _

_"Beyond successful. What Sith doesn't crave the power to reanimate the dead? To turn others completely over to their will?_

_"And yet it still needs a shock collar?"_

_"Don't fret Tormen, doesn't it looks _delightful_ on him?" Darth Vexyl leans forward in her chair and caresses her pet's cheek as he kneels beside her chair, naked as the day he was reborn. "He's a good attack dog. I tell him to bark, he _roars_. I tell him to beg, he _grovels_. When I tell him to fetch, he brings me their hearts without question. In fact, I think he likes the collar." _

_Vexyl reaches into the inner pocket of her robes and pulls out a small trigger, then tosses it across the table. Tormen catches it and just before he presses the trigger, she stops him by shooting a burst of lightning past his ear._

_"I'm _training_ him," she hisses, "I implore you to be mindful of that. There's more to this than simply pain. Pain is to be used as a lesson. At some point, fear of its usage can be more powerful than using the device itself."_

_"Fine, fine." Darth Tormen sits up and points to the area before him. "Come here, mutt, I'd like to prop my feet up." _

_Jirax looks toward his master and the pureblood with caution and hesitation. _

_"Use it. I'll have no such thing as _hesitation_ in my pet when given a command."_

_Tormen smirks and presses the trigger, immediately forcing electrical shocks to spread from the base of his neck and up and down his spine. Jirax groans, reaches up to clutch at his neck, and loses balance as his bulky frame seizes. He falls to the ground with a thud, writhing in pain as he rides out the sharp burning, prickling sensations. When the shocks recede, he slowly crawls to Darth Tormen, who slaps him with the back of his hand. Jirax bows his head without a grimace and awaits further instruction. _

_"Kneel on all fours like the dog you are," Jirax obeys and Tormen's dirty, heavy boots are placed onto his bare, scarred back. "If my feet slip or you lose your balance, you _know_ what will happen. Am I clear?"_

_Jirax nods, but Tormen scoffs and presses down on the trigger again, causing his footstool to collapse._

_"You're to answer with 'Yes, m'lord.' Am I clear?"_

_Darth Vexyl rolls her eyes and leans her cheek into her palm. "Tormen darling, _please_, he's currently not _capable_ of vocal speech. The best you'll get are guttural noises. While I said it was a _successful_ experiment, it wasn't _flawless_. His brain was…affected in some ways more than others. But the brain is pliant. He'll heal eventually. Perhaps I should have explained that prior to giving you our little toy, but it's so much more fun to learn as we go, is it not?"_

_"An animal who can't talk back," Tormen's boots resettle upon his footstool. "You should keep it this way. You'll never get a 'no.' Too many of my slaves dare to snap their tongues at me. It's irritating. My collection of the organ is numerous."_

_"Oh, but that's where you're partially wrong, Tormen. I _want_ a little bite with my bark. Only a touch. While I want him to hunt and fetch for me, he's also served as my plaything. Sex is so much more invigorating when it's laced with anger, though I'm sure you're aware of that."_

_Jirax's arms begin to tremble at the knees as the weight upon his back becomes difficult to bear. He grinds his teeth and his back begins to cave inward. _

_"Keep your back straight, mutt."_

_A small amount of volts surge through his collar and he grunts. Veins pop out on his neck and arms, overworked muscles strain, but even this pain is more bearable than the shock collar at its strongest setting. _

_"The lobotomy was the most difficult part. I severed most of the brain's frontal cortex when the ice pick pierced through. The amygdala's swollen as a result of the shock collar, my scientist tells me. Can you believe that, Tormen? In place of the mind's ability to comprehend their world around them, the brain's processing center for pain and anger doubles in size. It's almost as if he's devolved from being even human."_

_"Do you plan on conducting this ritual again? I have several slaves who are likely strong enough for this procedure."_

_"Perhaps if this one dies on me; if he survives the first month, then I'll simply fine tune this work of art. If he dies, I'll take up your offer, darling." _

_"What do you feed it?"_

_"Protein, mostly, to build up his muscle mass. His body mass has doubled in the past two weeks."_

_"And yet it struggles to hold up my boots."_

_"He hasn't buckled yet, Tormen, have a little more faith in my pet." Vexyl brings her glass of brandy to her lips. "You would be amazed by how the body's limits stretch and expand when their fear of pain takes precedence. He may appear as if he's struggling, but my pet knows better than to _disobey_ a command…"_

Jirax wakes in a cold sweat and sits up, clutching at his throbbing head. Beside him, Mako stirs, mumbles something, and opens her eyes. She's alarmed by his heavy, shaky breathing, and the strain in his muscles.

"What's wrong?" Mako asks as she comes to rest behind him, with her arms sliding around his chest.

_You will _never_ be free of me, do you understand? I will _always_ be in your head, your heart, your muscles, and your bones. I made you. You're mine. I am your creator and your master. You may believe yourself safe, in the warmth of another woman's arms, in the security of her bed, but you will always be dangerous and she will never truly love you. Why? Because you are incapable of such emotion. You're not programmed for it. I cut into your skull and removed that part of you. I took your—_

"Say something," Mako urges, "don't leave me hanging here, big guy."

For a moment, Jirax can't find the words, worries he can't even speak, and for a frightful moment fears he's lost the ability to speak after forcing himself to relearn it two years ago. He swallows hard and looks up.

"Bad dream."

Her voice is groggy but slowly waking up as well, "Do you want to talk about it?"

He narrows his brows and shakes his head with a sigh. "No, rather not, but I appreciate it."

She smiles half-heartedly. Jirax shifts and pulls her fully into his arms, breathing into her hair, gripping her as if he'll never have the chance again. "How 'bout I read the next chapter till you fall back asleep?"

"Sure, alright," Mako yawns and grins. "Though that might happen quicker than you think. I'm exhausted after that mess on Quesh."

"Don't ever let me agree to any advertisin' again, alright? Let's just assume it's a scam."

They settle back against her bed, with Jirax's arm around her as she lays her head against his chest. He holds the withered book in his hand and picks up where they left off, chapter four of _Gone With the Solar Wind_. His fingers absentmindedly brush through her soft, wavy hair, and Jirax reads loud enough that it'll drown out Darth Vexyl's words in the back of his head.


	13. Chapter 13

**To Mould A Man From Clay**

**Chapter Thirteen**

"We've just been hailed by a ship called the _Tyrant_. I don't know if it's necessarily a good thing, though. The Imperials might just turn us into bargaining chips if we aren't careful—how do you want to play this, boss?"

Jirax stands before the large expanse of windows that open to space. In the distance is a giant Imperial dreadnaught. He glances over his shoulder and shrugs partially, then turns to face her. "Ain't much we can do. They'll shoot us down if we resist, I reckon."

"Do you want to respond directly? I mean, this could be an arrest for all we know—"

"I'll handle it. Stay on the ship. Torian, watch the hangar deck after we dock."

Torian nods and leaves the bridge in order to gear up. "Got it."

Mako stands from the captain's chair and shakes her head. "What? You're kidding, you can't go alone!"

"Somethin' ain't right about this." He reaches up to scratch his chin and his brows narrow. "Can't explain it, but it ain't damn right. I don't want to drag you all into this as well. If things get bad you're gonna fly outta the hangar, hit the throttle, and jump the fuck away and not look back, alright? I'll find a way to hold 'em off for your escape." Jirax looks at each of his misfit crewmembers and keeps his voice firm, "And that's final, so I don't want to hear anything otherwise. Are we clear?"

"That could turn into suicide! We're a _team_, remember? We do things _together_, remember?"

"Team or not, I'm the one who's gotten us into this mess, I'm the one who's gonna get us out." He frowns, looks away from her briefly, and then storms out of the bridge, with his durasteel boots clanking against the metal.

Mako follows after him and catches him in the room with the stairwell. She yanks his arm and stops him. "Why're you being so stubborn? There's no reason to go alone, we have no idea what this is about, it could be anything, but if it's an arrest you need us with you—"

"I said it ain't negotiable."

"Stars, what's it going to take to get through to that thick skull of yours?"

"I don't want any of you gettin' hurt on my behalf. I'm the one who's got the bounty on his head. Not you all." Jirax can't meet her eyes. "Like you said. How many more people gotta die on my account, huh? How many more? Fuck, it's selfish, but at this point with the guns pointed towards us now, I'd say it's fair."

Finally, he runs his gloved hand through his hair and looks directly at her. "I'd rather not lose the only bit of family I've got left in this sorry galaxy."

"You don't leave family behind, Jirax."

"Well don't you worry your pretty little head, I'm plannin' on comin' back one way or another."

Mako smiles half-heartedly, but nods. "Fine. Alright. You're way too stubborn for your own good, but fine. We'll keep the ship running. We've got plenty of fuel from the stop at the fleet last week. While you're gone I'll search the Holonet for places where we can lay low for awhile. When you come back, because I know you're going to come back, we'll head out to that someplace." She places a hand on his armored shoulder. "We're gonna get through this, alright?"

Jirax nods and they walk down the stairs to go to the crews' quarters, passing by Torian who's gathering his own gear from a separate locker. Mako stops by the med-bay to gather supplies for him as he himself gears up for the possible fight. When they join up again, Jirax holds his helmet in his hand against his side.

"We've walked through worse shitstorms before. Like storming Faathra's palace on Hutta."

"Or killing a Queen Colicoid on Balmorra."

"Hunting down Tarro Blood."

"—Landing in less than five, boss," Gault announces over the intercom. "Be ready for a boarding party that won't be much of a party."

"I think getting Blood was my favorite."

Jirax laughs and hits the safety on his gauntlet's flame-thrower. He places his blaster in the holster at his side and rolls his shoulders carefully. "I think I'm good to go."

As he heads out of the crews' quarters, Mako stops him again in the hall, more gently than before in the staircase, and attempts a smile again. It forms briefly, then falls short and fades into a frown.

"Just be good on your word. You're coming back."

Jirax rests his hands on her shoulders and blinks down at her. The disconcerting sensation in the back of his head makes him dizzy and almost like a developing migraine.

"I promise I'll come back. All in one piece for the most part—just in case, y'know, might scuff a knee."

"I hope you don't even scrape a knee or get the hiccups while you're out there."

"Hiccups can't kill."

She laughs. "They're sure annoying, though."

"ETA one minute, boss." Gault's voice says over the intercom once again.

To help calm her nerves, he places his helmet on the ground, reaches out, and hugs her, lifting her off the ground and holding her close. He can smell her sweet shampoo in her hair as he breathes her in and her hands are soft against the base of his neck. The ominous superstition unsettles him, but with her here with him, Jirax focuses on imprinting to memory this image of her, the way her voice sounds, her quirks, her smile—he doesn't want it to fade away like so many of his own past memories. Jirax knows she's right; this could very well be a one-way trip. With that thought, he lowers her carefully to the ground again, still holding her, and this time, unlike before, he doesn't need courage.

"_Ni kar'tayl…_" his pronunciation is atrocious, and in spite of the courage and boldness he takes it slow so that she hears every syllable, every bit of inflection in his tone, "…_gar darasuum._"

When they pull apart, Mako hesitates as she raises a brow out of confusion. Her smile is playful nonetheless. "Is that Mando'a?"

Jirax picks up his helmet and places it over his head—mostly in order to hide his own blush (he can't use the excuse of blood this time). He nods and heads out for the airlock. Mako follows after him.

"Keep everyone safe. If I'm not back in a few hours at most, you know what to do."

She blinks and folds her arms across her coat. "Well aren't you going to tell me what it means?"

"It's…" he glances back over his shoulder as the airlock opens with a loud fizzing noise. The burst of courage suddenly disappears. He punches in the code to open the airlock. "Hell if I know what it really translates to." He shrugs. "It's a battle-cry, and this is a war."


	14. Chapter 14

**To Mould A Man From Clay**

**Chapter Fourteen**

"You know, in spite of how much I hate Nar Shaddaa, the food's always good. Probably the only honest business on this planet."

Jirax takes a bite of his bantha kebob and nods. "Good taste in food," he tells her after chewing.

"I know your appetite. _Lots_ of protein."

"Gotta stay big and strong if I'm gonna live up to the reputation of bein' a big mighty rancor."

"I don't know," her innocent smile turns into a knowing smirk, "to the galaxy you might be big and mean, but to me you're big and kind of a huge bookworm."

"Only kind of, huh?" His toothy grin is accompanied by a laugh.

"Okay, a complete one. My big scary mercenary, gun in one hand, reading his datapad in the other."

He leans back and takes another hefty bite of the barbequed kebob. They look out over the Nar Shaddaa skyway on one of the lower levels of the Promenade, resting on one of the clean, non-vandalized benches. Out of the corner of his eye he watches her eat the same thing, only without sauce. They continue eating in comfortable silence, enjoying the mixture of ambiance noises on the quieter level of the promenade: Huttese advertisements over loudspeakers and songs in both basic and Huttese in between said ads.

The music's catchy and though he doesn't know the words, it's enough to make him drum along to the beat with his fingers against his thigh.

"In fact, I think this night alone's been enough to cancel out a lot of what I saw growing up."

"Ah, hell Mako, you're gonna make me blush." He laughs and toothily grins. "Ain't even got a helmet to cover it up."

"I'm serious! You know how much I hate this place." She lowers her finished, empty kebob and shrugs. "Well, you sort of do, but I mean it's more than just the Eidolon and Anuli. There's a lot of glitz and glam but it's just covering up the grime and the bloodstains."

"Just tells one big fat lie."

"That's _exactly_ it. Nar Shaddaa is one big lie. People come here wanting to lose themselves; but when they do, they wish they could go back."

Jirax blinks and sits up, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. "I'm sorry, Mako."

"Like I said though; this night's been wonderful." She smiles though he still sees the beginnings of tears in her eyes that she's fighting back. "But, well, you know, you didn't need to cover up the scars and stitches for me. You don't have to."

"I know, 'ppreciate you sayin' that, really, but I wanted to. Special night and all. Wanted to celebrate right. Man's gotta look the part."

"Either way, I want you to know that in some ways you're the exact opposite of Nar Shaddaa. You don't try to hide it; you own up to it and you've proven that you're more than them."

Jirax fidgets, feels his chest constrict, and for once the blood doesn't rush to his head nor does pain afflict him. He feels different; stronger and yet more vulnerable with her. He stands, takes their shish-kebob's empty sticks and throws them away, giving himself the opportunity to think up something nice, sweet, and pretty for her—she did say after all that she liked his poetic side.

When he sits back down beside her again, his mouth dries and his stomach clenches. Without the outer shell of armor he feels exposed yet lighter—as if for once he isn't a bounty hunter and certainly not the result of a mad Sith's experimentation, just a man. He wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her close.

"In heaven a man knows joy; in life a man faces trials; a man knows paradise in life when he knows when he's found joy amongst his trials."

Mako blushes and smiles sheepishly. "Did you think of that just now?"

He snorts, "Bit cliched, right?"

"Not at all. Something's cliche when it doesn't have deeper meaning and is just empty. You said that and I know you mean it."

That makes him smile—genuinely smile, and it feels good, makes him feel happy, well, and at peace. He takes her hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the back, and smirking.

"Look mighty fine in that color."

Mako glances back to her flowy crimson colored dress that comes to above her knee. "You think so? I bought this when I bought my new coat. Looked good on the model."

Jirax stands and brushes off his cream colored shirt and dark pants, then pulls her up into his arms. "C'mon, we're probably already late for the party."

She winks and runs her hand over his muscles and the snake tattoo on his right arm that she normally doesn't get to see. "I think they'll wait on the latest _Champion of the Great Hunt_ before they start the party in full swing."

"It'll be funnier if they've started the party. They'll be drunk as hell and probably boastin' 'bout their kill counts."

"Well we wouldn't want to miss that and the stories, would we?"

* * *

In spite of his efforts to help her make newer, happier memories of her time spent on Nar Shaddaa, the night was ruined not by Sith, not by Imperials, not by Hutts, but by Jedi and the SIS, and Jirax vowed revenge for the blood spilt of his colleagues and the nightmares it gave Mako that night.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note**: _The previous chapter was out of order, unfortunately, but this one picks up directly after chapter thirteen._

* * *

**To Mould A Man From Clay**

**Chapter Fifteen**

Jirax knows there's something wrong with this ship, the _Tyrant_. He can sense it in his head, feel it tight in his chest. His throat aches, as if an invisible hand is squeezing just enough to make him breathless. His armor seems heavier, and it feels like someone added weights onto his shoulders. Either way, the superstition doesn't wear off. He walks through the hangar deck, boots clanking against the ground, and no boarding party greets him.

The ship's abandoned, he wonders as he exits the hangar deck and starts to wander the halls, keeping his eyes and ears open to even the slightest bit of movement or the faintest noise.

Jirax's senses, his instincts, tell him to turn back and walk away—no, to run, run, run, run, as if there are warning signs flashing before his eyes at every turn. Too stubborn to even obey his subconscious or his own unsettling suspicion.

_You've grown far too trusting, my pet_—Jirax freezes momentarily and shakes his head, silencing the other voice in his head with his own thoughts: _Just your nerves. Got to be sure. Clean sweep, then you run like hell._

Jirax's suspicion is shot down when he sees two people kneeling on the ground, scrubbing the floor with brightly visible shock collars on their necks. The sight alone is enough of a reminder of his own time spent wearing one and enough to bring up a phantom weight upon his neck.

As he approaches the end of the hallway, he sees it's two women in dirty rags, with ruffled, tangled hair and sickly skin. He hears a muffled noise over the sound of his boots and as he gets closer, he realizes the woman with black hair and darker skin is sobbing as the other woman, with dull blonde hair and yellow skin urges her to remain quiet.

Jirax's throat tightens—he knows their situation all too well, and it's confirmed his fear that it's a Sith's ship. He knows there's nothing he can do for those slaves, nothing but ignore them. He doesn't pray for them or wish them a better future—those sentiments are ignorant and foolish. He knows their fate, and, if anything, hopes it ends soon. Freedom from slavery is a rare thing, and a false hope with a shock collar in the way.

As he's about to pass them, keeping his head up so as not to attract attention, the sobbing stops and instead one of the women reaches out and touches his boot, inspiring further scolding from the other woman. He sighs to himself and keeps his head high, he can't save them and whoever their master is, they're waiting for him.

"Jirax Danthan?"

Jirax stops walking and makes the cruel mistake of looking over his shoulder and down at the kneeling women. His breath escapes him and for a moment he's frozen, then the shaking starts, then he wants to vomit, and he steps back, removes his helmet to see it with his own eye, and he throws his helmet down onto the ground, immediately consumed with rage.

"Is this some kind of fuckin' joke?"

The dark haired woman stands on wobbly, frail legs and walks toward him, and Jirax shakes his head and growls for her to stay back. When she stops before him and touches his face, touches his scars, he knows it's true—it's his Safie, his so-called dead wife, truly alive, but no longer blind. In place of both of her eyes are cybernetic optical implants, black and red and painfully attached to her skull by an amateur physician he imagines.

"Now I know what happened. Why you came to me with a broken and marred face. I can see it so clearly in you, just as I sometimes see in myself on accidental occasions."

Jirax grabs her head and holds her firmly in his grip. "Are you saying she's alive? Who did this to you? Tell me!"

"She wanted you to believe we were dead," Safie's voice is hollow and bereft of emotion, far too drained and weak to show any further. "And we were, for a short time. Shorter than your disappearance. When I woke up, I could see, and I saw our little boy, our Vik'tur…he…"

Jirax doesn't want to know. He can already imagine.

"I thought it was a miracle that I could see after being blind all my life. But I was wrong. It was a sight no mother should see." Her optics look frantically over his features, and he can't make out her expression. "Raised to be durable slaves. Work animals, not attack dogs."

Jirax doesn't know what to say. He stops shaking and loosens his grip on her. In spite of Vexyl's machinations, the same ritual performed upon him, he doesn't know what to say out of empathy or support to help her. Instead, her lips curl into a wicked smile and she laughs hysterically.

"We were told to wait here for you. It's all a trap. All arranged. In exchange for your capture, I get freedom. I wanted you to come. I wanted you to see, so now you'll want revenge. Vexyl is dead, you made sure of that, but her master still lives. But you can't escape now."

Jirax glances between Safie and the other woman who's furiously cleaning away, who also has unwillingly undergone the same ritual. He's jerked out of it when he feels his blaster being removed from his holster and taken into Safie's hands.

It happens in a flash, and there's nothing he can say or do to stop it. She raises her head and the desperation is there in her unfeeling, metallic implants. The gun's barrel presses into her neck then she pulls the trigger and collapses before him, killed instantly from the blunt trauma.

"In the end, that's what we're driven to," the other woman says without looking up. "We betray the one's we loved. We do what we must in order to be the saved, not the drowned. We'll snap necks for a scrap of bread, we'll do as we're told in order to avoid the shock, however horrifying or disgusting.

"When she was approached by our lord to lay the trap, she agreed knowing you would be stunned, and she would be able to get close enough to get your gun. To our master it's a small price to pay for the capture of his greatest experiment.

"In the end we'll betray anyone and anything, because we're lab rats who've had someone pick into our brains and take out anything except our fear of pain and our distrust of others. In the end we're nothing but animals who want to survive or euthanize the pain."

Jirax's speechless as he stares down at the bloody mess that's already being cleaned up by the other slave. He doesn't resist when the other Imperial guards come to take him away—the boarding party that should have met him in the hangar deck.

"I think she realized what she had become. That's why she sobbed. But in the end, she wanted to save herself."

It's too late to resist. His final, clear thought is he hopes Mako and the others follow his orders and leave before it happens to them as well.


End file.
